


When the Dark Clouds Roll

by OmoYasha



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Bed-Wetting, Gen, Integra is mortal, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, References to Illness, Songfic, and Alucard has trouble with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29626653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmoYasha/pseuds/OmoYasha
Summary: She would not permit him to stay with her all day, insisting that he return to his quarters to rest.He did not argue, because to argue would be to give voice to the way his thoughts grew treacherously dark and loud, though there was no cacophony of stolen souls to blame for the whispers any longer.The way images blurred in the back of his mind, and he could not place whether they were memories, or creations of his own uneasy thoughts.He would not do so.What was the point in being a monster, and still allowing such weakness?
Relationships: Alucard & Integra Hellsing, Alucard & Seras Victoria
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	When the Dark Clouds Roll

**Author's Note:**

> THIS FIC INVOLVES A VAMPIRE WETTING THE BED. I am writing it for an omorashi writing challenge - I will probably write a non-piss-related version of this story when I am done with that, because I like the concept and think it could work without those scenes as well. If you are uncomfortable with the concept, PLEASE WAIT FOR THAT ONE. However, that content does not start until chapter two. So I suppose if you really want to you could read chapter one on this version instead, since it will be the same in both versions of the story.
> 
> This fic is from an omorashi version of the "songs on shuffle" songfic writing challenge. The song it is based off is "Any Way the Wind Blows", from Hadestown. Please enjoy!

_...And there ain't a thing that you can do_   
_When the weather takes a turn on you_   
_'Cept for hurry up and hit the road..._   
_Any way the wind blows._   
_Wind comes up!_   
_Ooh - do you hear that sound?_

_Wind comes up!_   
_Move to another town_   
_Ain't nobody gonna stick around_   
_When the dark clouds roll..._   
_Any way the wind blows._

* * *

Integra was almost gone.

Somehow, in the space between one blink and the next – in the time between drawing a breath and speaking a word – his master had changed.

(Always, in his memory, she sprang to mind the way she appeared to him at the Battle of London – battered and bloody, an avenging angel with an iron will, beautiful in her confidence and in her fury. Or, at times – in his more contemplative moments – she appeared to him as the righteous child whose blood he first tasted, stumbling and frightened… but not in the slightest bit less stubborn, less fiery, than the woman she would become.)

She was still stubborn, still clever, still righteous. Still _beautiful_ , in all the ways that mattered. But somehow, without his will or conscious knowledge, Integra had gotten _old_.

It never got easier, watching a human’s slow submission to the inexorable forces of time. Not when it was someone like Integra. Not when it was someone that was _his_.

Old age brought its own kind of beauty, one which he appreciated more and more as the years and decades passed him by. Naturally, perfectly, _human_. It was something which fascinated him. Old age, it seemed to him, made a person ever more _themself_ than they ever were in youth.

But also, old age brought a person ever closer to their vanishing point; to the day they would slip away into heaven or hell or wherever it was that souls went to when they were not alive, and not _with him_.

It was not something he preferred to dwell on. Human lives were so fleeting. What use was there in dwelling on the inevitable disappointment, when you finally found one worthy of attention?

But it was always difficult, when it came to his masters, and Integra was the very best of them.

He found he could not help but dwell on her growing frailty – all the more-so when he finally realized what was missing – what Integra, in her wisdom and cunning and lifetime of learning _him_ had carefully avoided drawing his attention to.

The transition between masters was difficult. But there was always a new master waiting. A child, a brother, a cousin. He had never given much thought to the thorny, twiggish outcroppings of the Hellsing family tree until they became relevant to him directly.

So it was very belatedly that he realized – _Integra Hellsing had no kin._

She was a virgin.

And she was _old._ She was _dying._

She was the end.

In one way, he could not find it in himself to regret that. He had known since the moment he met her – a terrified child who stared down death with steel in her eyes, who took his leash in her hand and set him loose without a hint of hesitation or regret – that he would find no finer master.

If there was to be an end to his bond, at least it would not end in disappointment. He could not regret that Integra would be the last.

In every other sense, he did. Regretted it, and feared it.

He _needed_ her. He needed a master, even if it was _not_ her.

He was too old, too strong, too deeply sunk into his madness, to ever be trusted to fully govern himself.

Would she leave him to be consumed by his blood-lust and insanity, no better than the scum he hunted – if anything, worse, for there was nothing he applied himself to that he did not do _well_.

He did not want that.

He did not want to be alone.

He had snarled and raged, when she confirmed his fears.

It was her _job_ to be his master. It was what her family was _for_ – for over a century, they had been his keepers, that was their _contract_!

Didn’t she care what would happen when she set him free? All the bloodshed and torment he would rain down on the country she always claimed to love?

He would _destroy_ it. Destroy _everything._

If there was a single human in the world who could have subdued him, destroyed him with all his power behind him, they had missed their chance a long time ago.

Integra listened, her back straight, her face as stony as it always was. Then she looked at him, her gaze filled with something far softer than steel.

“I have no intention of leaving you to your own devices.” she said, and he hissed at her, and hurled the book she’d been reading into the wall hard enough to leave a mark.

Then he sunk into the shadows and fled, furious as he was uneasy. Couldn’t she see that her intentions meant nothing?

He did not speak to anyone for the rest of that night, or the next.

But he was hardly inclined to seclude himself forever; not when reminders of less voluntary solitude dogged his every moment.

Not when his time with her already grew short.

She was a human, with their mayfly lives, so short and vibrant. Even if she survived her current illness, she had been a child when they met, full of life, full of potential.

But that had been many decades of ago now, and he had missed far too many of them.

What did she have in the best of circumstances? Another ten years? Another twenty?

Barely more than a day, to one such as him.

He could not stay away.

Neither of them mentioned the argument, or the dent in her office wall.

She would not permit him to stay with her all day, insisting that he return to his quarters to rest.

He did not argue, because to argue would be to give voice to the way his thoughts grew treacherously dark and loud, though there was no cacophony of stolen souls to blame for the whispers any longer.

The way images blurred in the back of his mind, and he could not place whether they were memories, or creations of his own uneasy thoughts.

He would not do so.

What was the point in being a monster, and still allowing such weakness?

Instead, he obeyed her. Or at least, he tried. His thoughts, which had never been inclined towards obedience, grew especially unsettling when it came time to put himself to rest.

They twisted and caught at him in unexpected ways; sneaking up on him in traps that he had grown unaccustomed to.

He did not have difficulty sleeping – in fact, despite the _implied_ request that he avail himself of the deep, restorative sleep that a vampire’s coffin afforded, he often preferred the more restless, uneasy slumber that he found in his favorite chair.

He did not mind sleeping lightly.

It was the dreams that he despised.


End file.
